Scooch The little black Labrador pup came into our lives at an inopportune time. The marriage vessel was floundering in the shallows, the house atmosphere was stormy with more clouds on the horizon and a wreck on the rocks was imminent. There were five children to consider. I didn’t want to add a dog to the mess. But I was out-voted six to one and the pup came to live with us, a reluctantly added member to a dispersing family. I named him Scooch, an Italian slang word that roughly translates to “pain in the rear”. He was a rogue, and like all successful rogues he stole your heart. He had a knack for getting at the core of a matter. If you had a dozen pairs of shoes, he would select your favorite and destroy one of them. This was a fair bargain to Scooch; one for him and one for you. Any food that he could reach was his. He never begged, too much dignity for that, but you had to know where he was at all times. Many a kid lost a summer ice cream by failing to reckon with Scooch’s built in radar and ice cream homing system. But he had a way, and you had to love him for raising rascality to such an engaging art form. Scooch was responsible for 10% of the local ice cream store’s sales as I felt morally bound to replace the purloined cone with a new one. We could never keep a dog tag on him. He suffered no collars, slipping every one. This caused us a few problems, not to mention several fines from the local dog officer. I once fastened a clothesline to his collar and tied the line to one of our maple trees. He quickly freed himself by chewing through the rope. Like Cyrano De Bergerac who wore no man’s colors, Scooch wore no man’s collar. He was proud of his own coal black eyes and pitch-black coat. He displayed a few white hairs on his chest, barely visible, but grown there; I am sure, in nihilistic reaction to flawlessness. Scooch would have nothing to do with perfection. Life was too interesting to bother with it. So the few white chest hairs were there as a badge against purist pursuits. We lived near the Kingston Railroad Station and Scooch appointed himself official greeter. He performed no tricks. Tricks, in Scooch’s eye were akin to begging, well beneath his dignity. He liked the hustle and bustle of the train station. He discovered that interesting things happened when the trains stopped. He garnered tidbits from arriving and departing passengers and became the station’s unofficial greeter. But he could never keep a job. He would disappear for days at a time. We learned never to fret about his absences. He’d eventually show up. One morning after an overnight visit to the Great Swamp, a territory which covered hundreds of acres and lay behind the railroad station, he deposited a beaver in our yard. Scooch’s acquaintances extended to Station Masters, hippies, two retired schoolteachers who lived across Route 138, and, as I learned later, U.R.I. professors and students who called him “Jake, The quad dog.” And like most of the URI kids he did not confine himself to West Kingston. His territory stretched all the way to Providence via his association with our neighbor and friend, Richard Sanderson. Richard was one of the people who Scooch adopted. In keeping with the 70’s sub-culture, Richard sported a huge Wyatt Earp moustache, drove a dilapidated VW bug and lived alone in a three-room clapboard house. Winter heat was provided by a wood-burning stove, summer air-conditioning by open windows. Scooch loved the place since it was surrounded by acres of woods and had a running stream nearby. Richard would pick up Scooch by driving to our house, opening the passenger side door, and whistling. Scooch usually hopped on board ready for an adventure that could be a simple trip to the supermarket or a ride to Providence to explore life in the big city. On this occasion it was life in the big city. Richard was headed for The Met Café. The Met’s eclectic clientele of bikers, hippies, college kids, and erstwhile nihilists regularly filled the premises, and Richard and Scooch fit in seamlessly. Richard would nurse a few drinks and listen to the live music. Scooch would camp under the table to observe life from ankle level. Denizens of the café would buy a hot dog or burger or fries and, some with fanfare and some silently, slip the morsel under the table. Scooch gratefully accepted all donations, but he never left the cover of the table, which was where he preferred to spend his evening. His frequent visits earned him the name of “The Met Dog”. On this particular evening, Richard and Scooch hung in until closing time. Richard and Scooch arrived, but Richard, Scooch and a young lady were leaving together. It happens! But what happened next was a one-timer; they walked together to the VW and Richard unlocked the car, opened the passenger side door and Scooch jumped onto the front seat. Richard attempted to shoo Scooch to the back, but Scooch refused to budge. “C’mon Scooch”, said Richard, “Make room for the lady”. Scooch sat firmly. “Scooch, move over”. Scooch refused to budge. The young woman seized the door handle in an obvious attempt to commandeer the seat. Scooch reacted by baring his teeth and growling menacingly. Richard commanded, cajoled and threatened, but Scooch would not be gainsaid. He made it very clear that Richard would have to make a choice, the lady or the dog. Richard called a cab, tucked his lady friend into it and drove back to his house with Scooch happily occupying the front seat, nose to the wind. Richard says that he has no idea why Scooch did what he did, but he’s sure that Scooch saved him from something. Scooch never uttered a word about the incident. Typical of Scooch, he supplied me with my saddest and most joyous moments on the same day. I was at work one afternoon when Henry, our second floor tenant of about six months, called me. “I’m sorry to tell you this, but Scooch was hit by a car. He didn’t make it. There’s no blood, but he’s definitely dead. I put him in the garage.” It was early afternoon and my day collapsed with the news. The imps of doubt and recrimination danced into my consciousness, revealed themselves then popped like soap bubbles. No sooner was one gone than another would follow. Imp – “you should have kept a reflective collar on him”. Soap bubble - “He has slipped every one for 6 years.” Imp - “Why didn’t you tie him before you left for work.” Soap bubble – “He chews through the tie line.” Imp – “You could have used a chain.” Soap bubble – Yeah, tried it once and found him dragging himself to exhaustion after eight hours of unrelenting tugging.” Imp – “Get back to work.” Soap bubble – “You’ve got to be kidding.” The imps and the soap bubbles kept at it all the way to quitting time and then sat on my shoulder during the drive home. I pulled up to the front of the house and sat in the car for a moment trying to steel myself for the death scene waiting for me in the garage. I looked up ready to disembark and across the yard, ears up tail raised high, looking directly at me and waiting for my “come here signal” stood, steadily and sturdily and proudly, Scooch. I jumped from the car, patted my chest, which was the signal to Scooch that he could run full gallop and leap up to my chest where I would catch him, only occasionally being knocked head over teakettle by the impact. Scooch ran and jumped. I caught and hugged while Scooch licked my face in a warm greeting. “Scoojims, Scoojims, Scoojims” was all I could say. I then put Scooch down and headed for the garage while Scooch, never too sentimental, dismissed me and went about his own business elsewhere. I expected to find no dog in the garage. Maybe Scooch was just stunned, Henry’s no vet and not overly burdened with gray matter. But when I opened the garage door I found a dead black lab. The dead ringer looked enough like Scooch to fool a passing acquaintance, but it sure wasn’t Scooch. I bribed Scooch into the house with some leftover meatloaf and called the dog officer who knew Scooch well. I told him the story and he showed up a little later, collected the dead ringer, called me aside and told me he was glad it wasn’t Scooch. I’m sure he was looking forward to several more years of merry chases.

Feeding the Dog We’re having the kitchen remodeled. A day spent while the kitchen is being remodeled is one you don’t have to spend in Purgatory - I have since collected quite a few indulgences. David, Christine’s brother, I hate to say my brother-in-law, since the term does not adequately convey our relationship, David, who has just retired from the fire department, and who, when taking the fireman’s entrance physical examination, broke the speed record for grabbing a fire hose and ascending a two story ladder, David, who single handedly, and I mean all alone, climbed a ladder with a good sized Anderson window in his hands and installed it on the second story of our house, is doing the work as part of his new home construction/ renovation business with the mutual understanding that he work us into his schedule. This is why we have a remodeling job that only seems as long as the siege of Leningrad. Nothing is in its proper place, and as I go through the no longer routine motions of feeding the dog I spin pirouettes and figure eights, which if accomplished with a basketball, would land me an Allan Iverson type NBA contract. First task is to retrieve Bud’s dish from the deck; that has not changed. Go to refrigerator and get can of “Bud’s Delight” dog food - actually, any food is “Bud’s Delight”. The dog eats peaches, apples, pears, figs, lettuce, green beans from the garden, tomatoes, citrus. Now, have you ever known a dog to eat citrus? Bud does. We are careful not to gorge him with too many corncobs, watermelon rinds, cantaloupe skins, and like dainties. Bud was ten years old when he came into our lives. Christine assented to take him, virtually sight unseen, about an hour ahead of the pound. His former family was breaking up, house sold, etc. So it was that Bud came unto us. He’s 13 now and still a handsome creature. As I do the light fandango with dog dish in hand Bud lies on his dark blue bed looking as close to a shadow as any 65 pound black Lab can look. Most of Bud has disappeared. He is totally relaxed. He has learned the new routine much quicker than I. At first he would get to his feet and follow me around as I danced with his dish. He just watches now, as with dish in hand, I move to the refrigerator, which by some quirk of the remodeling crew, is somewhat close to its usual spot. Aced! Aced by Christine! There’s not enough dog food left to make a Bud sized meal. I place dish and can on a board covering a large plastic container which is holding torn pieces of cardboard set for the dumpster. Dish and can are at rest and I am now on a two fold mission: Obtain spoon to scoop and mix Bud’s food and get new can of food at base of cellar stairs. Spoon firmly in hand, headed towards basement stairs when headquarters interrupts my confident stride with an urgent message, “You’ll need to use a can opener”, this occasions an immediate right foot pivot inspired by years of watching Earl “The Pearl” Monroe or “Black Jesus” as his contemporaries named him. I retreat for the can opener and in no time am standing on the same spot I occupied, not 10 seconds ago. Now we’re making progress. I proceed to what is hopefully my final fetch while Bud lies passively, a mere shadow, a fractional essence, a dog in neutral. I descend into the basement and retrieve a can of “Bud’s Delight”. I ascend, light footed and light hearted with the warm assurance that I may now proceed with the actual “Scooping of the Food”, a ceremony which causes a stir on the dark blue bed. Food in dish, now to add water, I take a step towards the sink. Gottcha! The sink isn’t there. In fact the nearest running water to be had is from the faucets of the downstairs bathroom, “Your choice, Sir, you may use either the sink, which you will find much to shallow for kitchen use, or the bathtub which you will find most ungainly. Have a good day, sir.” I go for ungainly. Bud’s dish in hand, food properly moistened, now to add the dry ingredients and mix. But wait; saw dust and debris have precluded keeping the dry dog food bag in the kitchen. The dry food now lies next to the wood burning stove. I do a tight 180, like an NFL wide-out running a hook pattern, deserting the kitchen for the living room I place the dish on the floor, creating a stirring from the dark blue bed. With great restraint Bud lies almost motionless. Ears up, but just a bit, no full-blown commitment yet, head still on bed, but cocked, ever so slightly. One last swing from the living room through the sliding door and onto the deck, dish in hand all the while; a lively waiter with a dog in his wake. I place the dish upon the deck, and, voila, dinner is served. But first Bud gets to lick the spoon.